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And here it is; my proverbial “pink slip.” Actually, I think I would have rather been handed a pink slip. People can look for new jobs, but they absolutely cannot undo what is about to be done…eek!

I can’t help but think with all the modern branding and euphemism’s for things that are pretty awful, that they couldn’t have worked out a more enthusiastic way to say this.

For starters, as I learned with one of my non-pregnant friends, “ripening” sounds far too much like “rip-ening,” which was how she read it back to me when I handed her the sheet. “No, I assured her, that starts on Wednesday…on Tuesday, we “ripen.”

Then there’s the sorry blackened pictures of a stork holding a bag about as far from their body as they can, which showcases ( I assume) a deformed baby storks head, affirming the fact that, yes, my baby will probably also be ugly or misshapen because these things do happen. Though I ‘m hoping I won’t hold my package so far away from me? It looks like the classic resentment of the new babe because they just ruined their mothers body. Mercy!

Lastly, the most irksome part has to be, “GOOD LUCK!!” The all caps and double exclamation points insinuate that this feat of nature may or may not just be guided by the stars. Don’t worry, you’re not coming to one of the top delivery hospitals with all of our bells and whistles to ensure you not only live, you love this experience, you are coming to roll your own dice in a war against pain, death, or life. GOOD LUCK!!

With only four days left, perhaps it’s time to invest in a value pack of tarot cards.

When you’ve had a pregnancy like ours (I know, I know, details will be forthcoming in other posts), you know more about your baby/pregnancy on day one than normal people ever deduce in their entire nine month stint. Since our baby felt more like a math equation than a miracle up front, we decided to leave the gender in the sacred mystery category. Also known as, “leave the gender to God.”(because not all of it was up to Him anyway?)

I am still shocked how much this angers other people. How dare we defy modern technology and instead insist on a pointless surprise? How impractical we must be- painting the room pale yellow, buying blue and pink outfits only to have to return half of the batch, slaving away on multiple naming selections, and just overall not being prepared for a baby- because knowing if it had a tiddly winks or not would change our entire parenting perspective.

“I don’t think I could do that,” says the snide lady performing my maternal massage.“I think you know and you’re just not telling us” say relatives trying to prod.“So you’re just doing yellow and green?” says everyone with zero sense of style. (See picture for not so much…)

What follows is another great charade of questions:

“What do you want more- a boy or a girl?”

This is hands down the strangest yet most common question. So you want me to cast my vote, only to have a strong 50% chance that I will get the alternative, and this wayward child will be branded from the start as the person that “should have been” my son or daughter. It’s like a bad Lifetime Movie: “Isabella, if only you could have been the son your father wanted!”And then I’m always asked, “what do you think it is?”

This question is loaded. This question implies that surely I have developed some sense of maternal instinct as a result of this pregnancy and have a bond so close with my baby that I know it is either a boy or a girl. Worse yet, I tend to get the one-over look, whereby mothers from around the world make a decision based off of how much fat landed in my butt/thighs. I cringe when they take their guess, knowing well what they say about the differences in carrying between girls and boys. Hint: girls are supposed to steal your good looks, which would lend people to be judging how hideous you appear).

And the truth is, I don’t know. Sure, I have a guess, just like the rest of the world, but I don’t actually know.

They say you have vivid dreams, and that’s how a lot of pregnant women “discover” the sex of their baby. Well, perhaps you dream readers out there can shed some light. I’ve had two dreams with very, very ugly baby boys. I’ve had one dream with a precious little girl. And I’ve had one dream that my child (genderless in the dream) was a black baby. Take that.

I still regret during everyone else’s overspun (no offense) gender reveal in pink or blue cakes….I missed out on a prized opportunity. I should have staged our cake reveal.

Imagine, as we are cutting it open and people are confused seeing plain white cake, and we exclaim, “OMG! We’re having a caucasian baby!”

Of course we do. Defending their privacy seems to be a small obstacle as everyone not only wants to hear the names, they want to react, give you feedback, and ultimately, tell you long stories about how they knew someone with the same name. Typically, it was a bad ex situation, a kid who always peed themselves in the first grade, or the name rhymes or sounds very similar to something unfavorable.

When my mom was pregnant with my youngest brother, she was bent on the name Avery, when someone commented that it sounded like “Overy.” And that was that. Also unfortunate and tragic, she was sold on the name Harrison, with a nickname of “Harry.” Combined with my maiden name of “Reddick,” which I will delicately point out has two syllables, it could have been a train wreck. Thankfully, she did garner some honest feedback on that one.

Like not knowing the gender, people easily take offense to the holdout on not sharing baby names. In the fitting room at Anthropologie, I was asked yet again by a salesperson. When politely letting her know we were keeping those close to the chest, she sputtered back, “oh, I see….not even the anthropologie fitting room girl, huh?”(as if I wasn’t having a tough enough time of cramming my large rear and gut into their $$$ clothing to begin with).

So I developed an alternate course of action. I change my selections on any given day, but for your delight, I’ll share my list here:

If it’s a boy, we’re going to name him {Adolph/Judas/Osama/Saddam}…it’s a family name.

If it’s a girl, we’re going to name her {Jezebel/Bertha}

The trick has been to pick one name and stick with it. Of course if you gave up the rest of the list, people would be onto you. But it’s surprising how long you can run with just one. It’s had the effect of both pacifying their curiosity and getting me off the hook for the zillionth time.

What’s best, no one has any personal stories about these characters because they have never met one. How strange!

The short description for the 2.5 hour Baby Basics class indicated an instructional session to learn about swaddling, diapering, and general do’s and don’ts for first-time parents.

We walked through the hospital doors as I commented that I wouldn’t mind my husbands company at the upcoming b-feeding class just in case I couldn’t remember all of the information. Then he asked if we’d have to see someone’s actual chest. I scoffed, “of course not!” How inappropriate. I was sure they had other ways of instructing. No one would volunteer to have their chesticles on video display.

We sat in our seats and surveyed the room. Five couples, each with a dummy baby, swaddling blanket, cap, and outfit. I scoped out the snack table and grabbed some s’mores chewy bars and a Sprite. At about that time, classmates began asking pregnancy questions of the instructor ‘at random.’ One asking about the amount of sugar in soda and how it could affect the baby (literally as I was drinking it). I was already in pregnancy hell- being judged for my motherly tendencies. It was all I could do to not also publicly ask the question about maintaining a healthy weight as I was at least 75 lbs less than the non-soda-drinkers in the room, but I tried to harness my inner WWJD and instead decided to expel my sinful thoughts onto this blog.

The instructor kicked off the class with a 15 minute video, where we found out that this was a class where they would not only show someone’s chest (really? in the diapering class?), but nearly the whole enchilada. And why, I kept wondering in my too sober state, why was it necessary to have both boobs out when the child only nursed off of one. It was natural geographic at its finest, showcasing boobs from around the world- not an ethnicity or color left undiscovered.

I had failed my husband so miserably I could do nothing but laugh until they all decided I was too immature to be having a baby.

The next half hour was spent on a list of questions addressed to the group, whereby the instructor would read a statement and ask us to go around and respond, “mom,” “dad.” or “both.”

Question 1: “I am worried about driving with the baby in the car.”

Well, this was stupid to me. How else were we expected to take the baby anywhere? The rest of the room piped up with paranoid parents (they fell into the “both” category) insisting that there were so many crazy drivers out there, that they’d rather keep their baby at their house, etc. We looked at each other in disbelief. I must just be too trusting of our crazy world.

Question 2 was interrupted by a voluntary statement from the woman across the room. She looked up in despair while her husband looked forlornly down in the direction of her belly, avoiding any eye contact with the room. “Well,” she stammered, “I’m just….I’m just worried he’s afraid I’m going to forget about him.” Her slight nod indicated she was referencing her husband.

I leaned into mine and whispered, “that guy just lost his pants about a 1/2 mile back.”

The rest of the room chimed in to support her and assure it wouldn’t happen. I thought this was a bad idea as it looked kind of like it already was happening.

When we left our group therapy (ahem, class), I veto-ed the idea of bringing my spouse to b-feeding. I didn’t need anyone else in our house over-sensitized to global assets or the male-version of an emotional breakdown.

It was one of those wrong place wrong time scenes gone terribly wrong. There I was, nearly twenty pounds my normal weight with a soccer ball in my stomach, lethargic after a long day. I had somehow managed to uncage the birds when I got home from work while I rifled through the pantry for snippets of dinner.

Too tired to eat any more, I wandered back to the couch to prop my fat feet up. I melted into the couch seat with the greatest of relief. But beneath me I felt a twitch, followed by a muffled shrieking. Strange, I thought. So I picked my bottom up slightly and rearranged my seat back into the couch. Again I heard shrieking, though this time I realized what happened. I couldn’t have gotten up any faster, trying against gravity not to ‘push off’ against the couch.

When I stood up, what remained was a scuffled parrot. Her mohawk all aflurry, feathers every which way, beak slightly parted. She ran in a very fast circle, hissing at this and that into the air. It was like a UFO had bopped her and she wasn’t sure where to direct her natural defenses. Her waddle was a little crooked and I freaked out, trying to examine her bone structure for breaks. She seemed relieved to have me hold her near, obviously completely unaware that I had nearly been her angel of death…twice.

She had fit so delicately into the seam of my bottom that I shutter to think what would have happened had her vocals not enacted.

However, I feel most badly for Fred, who she took out her sentiments on later (see picture).

Always in search of the perfect hair removal trick, I was at it again.

When I found this device called the Epicare- retailing at less than $20 with free shipping- I was like a June Bug flying towards the light. The YouTube’s on it were sensational. I watched as some Norwegian woman lightly ‘buffed’ all of her unwanted facial hair off in a matter of minutes. Except I knew it wasn’t buffing, it was pulling, but if she could endure it with that pretty face, so could I.

When it came in the mail, I tore open the outer packaging to reveal a skinny black box of about 10 inches. Etched in gold was the cursive word, “Epicare.” Fancy.

I pulled out the product- a long narrow pipeway of metal coils, capped by what looked like old school pink pencil-topper erasers at either end. What an absurd contraption. I flung it around by one handle, amused by its slinky-bow reflexes.

I heard my husband in the driveway and threw it to the side, embarrassed by yet another strange vanity product that ‘most women’ probably never have to use.

When he came through the door, he saw my half-sorted mail and went to see if there was anything for him. He saw the Epicare.

It was like I had been hit with genius. Struck by a source of wicked that shocked even myself.

“Oh, I got that for us.” I said.

A confused look (rightfully) came across his face.

“It’s a ….. toy,” I stammered. We all know very well where I was going with this. Of all uncharacteristic things to do, this was surely it. I was trying to convince him that I had not only been looking but also purchased a bedroom product, and then had it shipped to the house.

Confusion continued. So I did what I do best- I elaborated in the free air space.

“See, this side goes in the front; this side goes in the back.” I bowed it to show its flexibility.

As soon as I was out with it, I had to mask my own horror. Can you imagine? Can you imagine if someone chose to use this device in such a way? It would literally tear all the hair from between your seams. I shuddered.

“I bought it on Amazon. That way we won’t be receiving any trashy magazines or anything like that and it was discreet.” The lies proliferated, but I was sturdy as a rock.

He got up from the couch and just walked away. Just like that. No amusement, intrigue, just a linger of concern and disgust.

As soon as he was out of eyesight, I grabbed the Epicare and a box of Cheez-its (which I figured I may as well return to the pantry since I was getting up), and went running in his direction to spill the (true) beans. But my platform shoes were no match for the race I was in and I ended up sprawling on the hardwoods, Cheez-its crushed and Epicare rolling right at his feet.

About 30 minutes later, he came upstairs to find me ‘buffing” my facial hair off with the Epicare. Boy that had to be weird.

About two months ago, I got a craving to start watching a movie series. Really, any series would do. I thought through the roster of movies I had never watched…Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, etc. At random, I selected Twilight.

Embarrassed by my selection, I sent someone else into Blockbuster to get the first one. I devoured it. We went back the next day to get the second and third, which I watched back to back. Then the fourth. In 24 hours, I became a Twihard. The fifth film of the saga was out in theaters, but our elusive schedule over the holidays made for 6 weeks of denying me what felt like my birthright. To appropriately quench my thirst (!), I took to the books, downloading one, then two, then three, then four…

I found ways to insert my newfound interest into random work conversations. I learned that I was about 7 years late on the hype, but that didn’t stop my zest for the product. When they put in a cafe in my office building and named it “Bella’s Cafe,” I couldn’t resist. When people talked about baby names, “EJ” and “Renesmee” came up. And of course, after last years “which of my two employees would win in the hunger games (against one another)” mass poll, I had to hold back temptations to start up an “Edward vs. Jacob” tally.

Fast forward weeks that dragged on like months. My husband insisted that we have a date night this past weekend. He told me to be ready to go by 3:45pm on Saturday. We cruised down the highway, a familiar route I take to work. As he pulled off on the exit that takes me to work, I glared at him. This didn’t feel like a date. This felt like work.

He circled into the parking lot of La Grande Plaza, straining to read the all-Spanish signs on the outside of each establishment. I kept my gaze forward; this was going to end badly. When he at last found what he was looking for, I dropped my jaw- “Cinema Latino de Fort Worth.”He proudly exclaimed it was the only showing left in town for the last Twilight movie.

The lady selling us tickets raised an eyebrow. Nearby children were dumping fudge syrup on their popcorn. I was not in Kansas anymore. There were six of us total in the theater. We watched the movie with Spanish subtitles framing each word. A woman in her fifties behind us exclaimed “yes!” every time the good guys beat the bad guys.

On the way out, we noticed the crowd at the mall shifted to a different demographic. The parking lot at La Grande Plaza on any given weekend night was a rave-fiesta of epic proportions. My husband was motivated to get us home. We hopped on the escalators to leave, and found a surprise on the bottom rung.

I burst into uncontrollable laughter, the kind that sounds fake, irreverent, and uncalled for at best. I pointed it out to everyone coming down the stairs behind us, but they didn’t seem to find it humorous at all. I tried to naively assume it was because they didn’t speak English, but shamefully, I knew better.

Everyone’s look insinuated we should probably leave, and that we didn’t get the cultural norms associated with the mall. My husband held me tightly, trying to silence me with comments about ‘just getting to the car,’ which only made my fit worse.

I had just seen a teenage heart throb movie as a married and pregnant anglo woman in a Hispanic mall with a runaway wiener. Why was this not funny to everyone else?

“Date nights are supposed to be memorable at least,” he commented. He wins.